


Flight Path

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, M/M, Season/Series 01, Treat, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: It takes John a while to figure out that Harold has a thing for birds: Finch, Wren, Partridge. Fortunately, he's kept it professional about the wings. So far.





	Flight Path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michaelssw0rd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta.

The wings spread forth when he hears Jessica's name, and it's been a long time since that happened without his conscious control. John has this Finch guy pinned to the wall by the neck, and the wings unfold instinctively. There's no time to think about consequences. He's only been awake for a few minutes, and in that time, he's dealt with waking in a strange room, hearing screams on the other side of the door, and finally a bored rich guy throwing Jessica's name around as if he knows her. 

John holds Finch still against the wall, a little higher than is comfortable for the man, and concentrates on getting air back into his lungs. He'll get the wings back under control in a minute, then he'll finish this guy off. And find another shirt. And some aspirin, he adds, as the adrenaline fades and the hangover slams in hard. 

He steps back from the wall and sinks into a seat, pulling his tattered t-shirt away, balling it up. The wings hang over the back and he leans forward automatically to keep his primaries from brushing the carpet. He hasn't been taking care of himself, and the feathers are going to be brittle. If he loses a primary, it will be weeks regrowing. The thought surprises him, because it really doesn't matter if they regrow or not. He's working on drinking himself to death, after all. Grooming hasn't really been a priority.

Mr Finch straightens his tie, standing back from the wings, apparently awestruck. "This is unexpected," he says, finally. 

"Oh? What happened to _'I know exactly everything about you, Mr Reese' _?"__

__It's taking a while for the extensor muscles to relax, which is what happens when John lets emotion overtake common sense. The stupid caveman part of his brain took Finch's words as a threat, and told his wings to display accordingly. John has been letting the stupid caveman part of his brain run things for a bit too long. He gives the wings a shake, and rolls his shoulders, forcing the muscles draw in. The wings fold, slowly but neatly, until only the scapular feathers are visible behind him._ _

__"Uh," says Finch, and swallows. John has the impression Finch isn't used to being lost for words. It's reassuring in a small way that he has something over a man who managed to abduct him and move him to a hotel room, even if John was in a drunken stupor._ _

__He points to the spool of tape on the table. "That's wire tap recording," he says. "NSA or FISA. But you're not government…"_ _

__Harold takes a deep breath, clearly dragging his mind back on topic. "No, I am not."_ _

__\---_ _

__John's used to people ogling the wings, but he's surprised at the level of research Harold puts into his ogling._ _

__"You appear to have raptor-like anatomy," he tells John over the earpiece._ _

__John puts a bullet in the knee of one mob heavyweight and swings to cover the next. "I never really thought about it," he says, and fires. It's true. Most people, after the initial surprise, never ask about the details. Kara was mostly concerned with how the wings could improve their success rate: they did, letting John land in places previously inaccessible without a chopper._ _

__"I expected as much from the colour of your plumage, but it's the primaries that give it away," Harold goes on. "They look like eagle feathers, built for gliding. I've yet to see you in full flight but I imagine that you do better over long distances than short."_ _

__Their number rockets past them on a mountain bike, and John leaps forward to stop him. The two of them are rolling over and over across the asphalt when Harold interjects again._ _

__"I suppose, since it will likely interfere with our operation, I should ask if you have a regular moult."_ _

__John tussles with the number, who is trying to knife him in the stomach. "Finch…" he says, as he grabs the knife and slams it into the ground, snapping the blade. "I get that you like to know everything, but there are some questions you don't ask a man, and that is one of them."_ _

__\---_ _

__The first time he gets clipped in the wing by a sharpshooter, he needs Harold to check the injury, back at the library. John has one knee on a chair, and one wing lifted up to allow Harold access. Harold reaches between the outstretched wing and John's skin, searching for the exit wound._ _

__John's bloody shirt is folded on the back of the chair, still intact. There are no more shredded shirts for him: instead there are carefully fitted and hemmed slits in the back of every shirt and jacket he wears. Harold was particular about the design, measuring everything, ostensibly so that John would always have a means of escape available to him without having to shed clothes, but John is starting to wonder if it was just an excuse for Harold to touch the wings._ _

__"It came out here by your ribs," Harold says, and presses a dressing against his skin. He's breathing fast with anxiety, though his hands are steady as he tapes the dressing in place. He hates it when John takes fire. "Does it hurt to breathe? I'm worried it's nicked your lung."_ _

__John breathes in and out steadily and the wings echo the movement of his shoulders, ruffling the photographs taped to the glass. "It's a little shallow for that," he says. "Got lucky this time."_ _

__"Good. It's barely bleeding now. I doubt it needs stitching." Harold points vaguely in the direction of the wings. "And I suppose that I'll need to check the… uh, the…"_ _

__John watches him flail in the reflection of the glass, then takes pity on him. "It went through the secondary coverts," he says, and gestures to the lower feathers closest to his side. "I don't think I lost any but if you can check, it will save trouble later. They're kind of awkward for me to see." He stretches the wing in question, lets it spread all the way to the wall so that each feather is clear, and looks over his shoulder to guide Harold to the right place._ _

__Harold clears his throat, and John shakes his head. "You need a minute alone, Finch?" It took him a while to figure out that Harold had a bird thing. Finch, Wren, Partridge. Still, so far Harold has kept it strictly professional, and now he frowns at John, annoyed, before he gets to work._ _

__Teasing Harold gives John good cover for the frisson of having Harold run his fingers across the feathers. Harold's hands are gentle on the silver grey of the coverts and John's skin prickles all along his back in response._ _

__"I believe the count is sixteen for the secondaries?" Harold runs his thumb and forefinger along each quill from shaft to tip, checking the integrity of the vanes, making sure nothing is torn or distorted._ _

__"Mmmhmm." It feels so good. John has to stop watching, and rest his head on his forearm to keep his composure. He's still buzzed after getting the latest number to safety, and the bullet hole in his side is aching, and it's going to take him an age to wind down enough that he can sleep. If this was the past, and Kara was here, they'd fuck and fight and fuck again until John couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He imagines asking Harold for a stress-relieving fuck and once he's thought of it, he can't stop. He's deep in a fantasy half-sleep where Harold is touching him all over, when there's a sharp pain close to his armpit. It startles him and the other wing flicks outwards. Loose papers suddenly fill the air._ _

__"Sorry," says Harold from behind him. "That was number eleven. It's not broken but the angle is odd."_ _

__Annoyed, John stands up. "It might just be dislodged. I'll shake it out; sometimes they settle in again." He looks at the scattered papers still settling on the flood. He'll need more room for this or he'll break a window._ _

__Harold picks up a blanket and drapes it across John's back, over the wings and all. "Downstairs," he says._ _

__There's plenty of room in the reception area of the library, and John stretches his arms, rolls his shoulders to warm up the right muscle groups. "This will kick up a breeze," he warns Harold. "You might be better upstairs." He clears space with his foot, pushing furniture and books to one side. "At least it won't make much more of a mess."_ _

__Harold picks up a book and puts it back on the shelf behind him. "I thought the disarray made good camouflage, but if you're going to use this space regularly, I'll clear it out. As it stands, it won't hurt to shift the dust a little."_ _

__John throws him the blanket and spreads his wings to full breadth, so that each feather stands out alone. Now he can sense the covert secondary that isn't sitting right, and gives his left wing a few sharp flicks to try and line it up again. This is where birds have it a little easier – they've got long necks and beaks that can pick through each quill and nudge them beck into position. John would indulge in a little self-pity except that Harold is leaning on the bannister, beguiled by the sight of him, wings outstretched silver and white in the gloom of the library entrance._ _

__He flexes, sets the wings beating in rhythm, feels great gusts of wind move over and under them, pushing him upwards in a cloud of dust and loose pages. His gut pulls in as his feet leave the ground and he rises upwards. A standing take-off is damn hard work, but it's worth for Harold's expression of awe. John is sweating and dusty when he alights on the step below Harold, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care about the dusty fingerprints on Harold's pristine shirt, he doesn't care that the twisted secondary is still naggingly sore or that the bullet wound is probably bleeding onto Harold's suit. All that matters is kissing Harold, getting as much of Harold pressed against him, having Harold's hands on his back, in his hair, on the wings, as he kisses John back._ _

__\---_ _

__In a bedroom with a vaulted ceiling in one of Harold's many homes, Harold touches him gently but reverently. He combs through the wings while he's kissing John, lets the feathers slide through his fingers. Pressed against him, John shudders as each quill responds to the touch, as Harold's fingertips find the soft down feathers close to John's skin. John couldn't fold the wings if he wanted to, and if Harold will only keep stroking him like that, he never will._ _

__The room is big enough that when he straddles Harold's body he can arch his back and spread the wings out all the way. Harold holds him by the hips as he guides John's body up and down. The wings rustle gently as John moves. The room is filled with a gentle breeze that makes the heavy curtains sway and the bed sheets swell up like parachute silk._ _

__Later, when they've worked out all possible permutations of wings and legs and bedclothes, John ends up face down on the bed, his wings spread open but slack and relaxed, a blanket of feather that covers most of the spacious bed. Beside him, propped on one elbow, Harold strokes his fingers through the big primary feathers of the wing that drapes over him. They're John's flight feathers, each as long as Harold's forearm. All around them, the bed is lightly dusted with silver-grey under feathers which curl and drift across the sheets._ _

__"It's still at an odd angle," Harold says, and his hand hovers above the twisted secondary. He carefully touches the quills to either side. "Will it correct itself?"_ _

__John huffs into the bed. "No," he says. "Pull it out, may as well get the new one started." He's so blithe with happiness, he doesn't realise Harold is horrified until the bed bounces with his physical recoil._ _

__With great effort, John turns his head to see what has upset Harold. "What?" he says._ _

__Harold's expression is so appalled it's funny. "I would never hurt you!"_ _

__John reaches out to touch Harold's face, startled by his reaction. "It's okay – it doesn't hurt. Well, a bit. More than a hair, less than a tooth."_ _

__"That doesn't make it better, John." Harold covers John's hand with his own. "I would hate to see you in pain and know that it was because of me."_ _

__"Okay," says John. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it. It'll look ridiculous, though. Just warning you."_ _

__"God forbid you are anything other than an object of grace and beauty," Harold says, but under the sarcasm he still sounds uncertain._ _

__What follows is a flailing, twisting drama as John tries to get the right angle. He almost sweeps Harold off the bed completely, and by the time he gets his fingers wrapped around the correct shaft, he has one foot on the floor and his head buried under a pillow. Even so, it's difficult to get enough leverage to yank the feather free._ _

__After two eye-watering attempts, Harold touches John's shoulder. "I'm sorry, please let me do it."_ _

__John lets go and lies flat on the bed. "Thanks," he says. "It's easier."_ _

__Harold's hands are strong and sure, and the feather is out in one movement. John lets out a breath, then looks up at Harold, who holds the feather with a reverent expression. Harold meets his gaze, and John grins at him._ _

__"Kiss it better?" he says, hopefully._ _

__Harold carefully places the feather on the bedside table. "I am happy to oblige," he says, and bends over John's wing._ _


End file.
